


How Long Have We Been Friends?

by gallopingmelancholia



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Getting Together, M/M, Missing Scene, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:34:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21873766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gallopingmelancholia/pseuds/gallopingmelancholia
Summary: Crowley didn’t fall in love in love with Aziraphale until Rome, when they ate oysters. His first sighting of the angel was completely unremarkable, and he’d have forgotten it completely if not for the flaming sword. The sword was cool. Crowley wanted one. His first actual meeting with the angel had been very interesting, but the angel was an oddity, not much more. An extremely odd oddity, one that required watching, but not yet the most compelling thing in all of creation. He’d worked on nebulae, after all, there was still a lot to see before he could decide how much of an anomaly this guy was.--Crowley is curious about Aziraphale and spends 6000 years trying to figure him out.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 50





	How Long Have We Been Friends?

Crowley didn’t fall in love in love with Aziraphale until Rome, when they ate oysters. His first sighting of the angel was completely unremarkable, and he’d have forgotten it completely if not for the flaming sword. The sword was cool. Crowley wanted one. His first actual meeting with the angel had been very interesting, but the angel was an oddity, not much more. An extremely odd oddity, one that required watching, but not yet the most compelling thing in all of creation. He’d worked on nebulae, after all, there was still a lot to see before he could decide how much of an anomaly this guy was. None of the other humorless, fresh-from-the-tin-mold angels he’d met had ever done anything half as rebellious as giving away Heaven’s gift to anyone, let alone disgraced humans. What’s more, he was unsure if he’d done the right thing. The other angels never questioned anything at all. Crowley had. That’s why he was Crawly, that’s why he got tangled up with Lucifer and the guys. Curiosity had gotten him into trouble, and he figured he couldn’t get into much more trouble anyway if he indulged it again. Blessed naïve soul didn’t even realize that Crowley was making fun of him. “You’re an angel, I don’t think you can do the wrong thing,” he’d said. Him, a demon. An angel who had done the wrong thing. But Aziraphale genuinely thanked him for comforting him, and sheltered him from the rain without a second thought. He was a nice bloke. Would be worth getting to know. Maybe he could get him to fall. That’d be quite a coup for the Serpent of Eden.

When next they met, a thousand years later, it hadn’t started raining just yet. Crowley hadn’t strictly been looking for him, but he had idly wondered what had happened to the kind outlier of angelhood since he’d taken that huge risk and topped it off with chatting with the demon responsible for instigating original sin. He’d waited to see if another angel would fall, after not only giving away one of Her heavenly gifts but, rumor had it, _lying directly to Her about it,_ but no round-faced, flustered cherub joined the demons of hell. How on earth had he managed to keep his grace after that? Maybe he’d ask. Maybe there were hidden, devious depths to him.

Crowley had immediately recognized the angel in all the hubbub surrounding the giant boat and made his way over to him. He greeted him informally, casually, warmly. Another angel would’ve told him not to be so cheeky. But Aziraphale returned the greeting, natural as you like, as if they weren’t hereditary enemies. He was uneasy again, desperately trying to find a bright spot or justification, this time for Someone Else’s mistake. He thought knew better than the Almighty but didn’t want to say anything, and that fascinated Crowley. It might not even be out of obedience to his superiors; he might just not want to be impolite. But no matter how Crowley tried to lead him into doing it, the angel wouldn’t come right out and question the Almighty. Not yet, anyway.

Crowley was surprised at his own sense of moral outrage at the thought of killing children. He’d never cared for them, personally, but surely they hadn’t done anything _wrong,_ per se. Not that he was a reliable judge of what was wrong, clearly. He’d stumbled into sin, just to see what would happen. This cute little pastry puff with hair like dollops of cream would never cross the lines that he himself had crossed, not even if Crowley tempted him into it. Now that he was standing right in front of him, the thought of trying to bring the angel down also felt wrong to him. Aziraphale was easily as innocent as those kids. Those hidden depths of calculation and deviousness he’d been looking for didn’t exist, the angel was really that concerned about the humans’ welfare. Corrupting that kind of mind just didn’t sit right with Crowley. The other demons running around top-side could try it, if they wanted, but he thought it’d be more interesting to see what the angel got up to without any outside influence.

They didn’t meet again for another 3000 years. They’d both been rather busy. It had been kind of fun, starting from scratch, planting seeds of temptation and sin all over again. Noah’s descendants were just as easy to lead astray as Eve had been. If you could call it astray. There’s nothing really wrong with new experiences, in Crowley’s view. He’d known Aziraphale would be there, the biggest scrimmage between their two teams, the Crucifixion. Crowley felt strange, being there, watching the end result of what he’d put in motion all those years ago by whispering into Eve’s ear. That’s presumably what the lad was there to fix. For some reason, he didn’t feel comfortable taking his eyes off of the suffering man. Aziraphale tore his eyes away a few times to look at Crowley, but they never made eye contact this time. The angel had to look away and winced several times. Crowley did too.

“Did you, uh, ever meet him?” Aziraphale asked.

“Yes. He seemed a very bright young man. I showed him all the kingdoms of the world.”

“Why?”

Crowley shrugged. “He’s a carpenter from Galilee, his travel opportunities are limited.” He’d told his bosses that he was tempting Jesus to renounce his destiny, convincing him that fasting for 40 days was a real bummer compared to all of the wonderful things humans had thought up. That was part of it, why he’d taken the assignment, to see what would happen. But his heart hadn’t really been in trying to get Jesus to sin. Crowley had known he wouldn’t. So he’d just enjoyed the man’s company for a bit, showing him cool things. It was nice to have intelligent companionship for once. Demons weren’t great conversationalists. But he’d had a good time being Jesus’ tour guide. He’d become rather fond of the humans by now. He was almost proud of them, in a way. He appreciated inventiveness. He liked to think he was the father of it. Well, one of its uncles.

If anything, his time with Jesus merely reinforced that the earth and everyone on it was worth saving and strengthened Jesus’ resolve to do so. Crowley certainly hadn’t intended that. Not consciously, anyway. But he agreed. He had a soft spot for humans. They were funny and usually meant well. Except when they didn’t.

Crowley knew why the humans were doing what they were doing in executing this man, but he wanted to hear it from the strange angel (strangel?). “Be kind to each other,” is how Aziraphale summed up the man’s offending message. That’s not what the other angels had said. He’d spoken to a few at the trial. The others (Uriel? Sandal-something?) had said it was due to Jesus’ brave righteousness in proclaiming His holy parentage. Uriel had said that Jesus was fixing Crowley’s mistake, which seemed unnecessarily pointed. He still didn’t think there was anything wrong with knowing the difference between good and evil. Not that he himself knew; it’s not like he’d eaten from the tree. Maybe he should have. Eve and Adam had, but it looked like that knowledge hadn’t transmitted itself to the rest of humanity. It couldn’t have done, if God Herself had wanted to start over from scratch to try to find a less troublesome crowd.

Anyway, he and Aziraphale watched the rest of the execution solemnly, sharing a strange sort of grief. This interaction hadn’t been as fun as the rest, but it somehow felt right to be there with the angel. The demons would think he was going soft if they saw how somber he was during the execution. But the angel seemed to intuitively understand why even a minion of Satan would be conflicted watching such a brutal, senseless death. Crowley walked away feeling heavy in heart, but better for having been able to share the emotional burden with a familiar face.

Eight years later, they crossed paths again. Crowley hadn’t known Aziraphale was in Rome. Well, that’s not why he’d gone to Rome, at first. He figured he might as well check out city life. And he’d kind of just stayed there.

He was definitely in that tavern to see Aziraphale, though. He’d seen that fluffy blonde hair bouncing cheerfully down the street and smelled that warm bread scent the angel seemed to carry around with him. He’d waited a reasonable amount of time outside, and then went in, casually asking for something to drink. He was annoyed at himself for going out of his way to encounter the angel again. Their conversations weren’t even that good. They just had a way of sticking in the brain, that was all. It wasn’t like he considered the angel a friend. They weren’t friends. They just had chats sometimes and Crowley thought about them for a long time afterwards. Because they were interesting. And he liked the guy. Nothing wrong with liking a guy you’ve chatted with. When Aziraphale came up to him using his old name but quickly correcting himself (considerate of him, Hastur still hadn’t gotten it right and it’d been 1500 years), he’d kept his smooth demon face on, the unimpressed façade he’d perfected. Being unreadable was an asset, he’d found. The darkened glasses had helped. Another thing to like about humans and their cities. They came up with all manner of interesting things when they were all packed in together like that.

He’d kept the cool act going for all of five seconds, until Aziraphale had asked if he was still a demon. He lapsed back into his old expressiveness and snapped, “What kind of stupid question is that? Am I still a demon—what else am I going to be, an aardvark?”

What did the angel care, anyway? Demonhood wasn’t reversible. He’d known that immediately, as soon as he’d belly-flopped into that fiery lake. Had the angel been hoping otherwise? Had he been thinking of Crowley? Why would he have? The thought made Crowley uncomfortable. It did something to his stomach he didn’t understand. He’d made his body as human as possible, all the bits working normally, except his supernatural powers. This fluttering in his abdomen wasn’t related to his powers, he didn’t think, but was it solely a human body thing? Would he have responded that way in snake form? He couldn’t tell. He didn’t turn to look at the angel, even as he’d joined him at the bar, though he did deign to clink mugs with him. He was here on business, not to flirt, if head office asked.

That sangfroid lasted maybe four minutes. The angel surprised him again. None of the other beings he’d met (heavenly or otherwise) really ate or drank anything. They weren’t as curious as he was, apparently. Or as curious as Aziraphale, who not only ate, but knew good food from bad.

“I’ve never eaten an oyster,” Crowley said. (He had. He hadn’t liked them, and anyway he could only ever eat a few bites of food before it all started turning to ash in his mouth. God had after all cursed the Serpent to eating only dust. Crowley exploited a loophole and imbibed only liquids. He didn’t explain this to the angel, though. He didn’t know what else to say but he did know he wanted to continue the conversation, so he lied.)

“Oh, well then, let me tempt you—“

Crowley finally turned around, amused.

“Oh wait, that’s your job, isn’t it?” the angel joked sheepishly. This intrigued Crowley because A) Angels didn’t joke, B) Angels didn’t joke about angels performing demonic activity, and C) What a cutie patootie, look at that smile. Something warm dropped into Crowley’s chest and settled there. It never vacated the premises during the next 2000-odd years.

He let the angel talk him into going to another tavern (which moonlighted as a brothel, though Crowley didn’t think Aziraphale knew that), and they shoved shellfish (a sin, mind you, or it had been when last Crowley checked the guidelines) down their gullets. It was truly terrible, and he told Aziraphale so. Aziraphale pouted, and kept trying to find some food Crowley did like, and either ate or shared the rest of the dish that Crowley pushed aside. Sometimes Crowley lied and said something that was good was disgusting, just to see how offended Aziraphale would get at his poor taste. Aziraphale was kind of snob, and that delighted Crowley. The other angels were snobs over their moral superiority; this angel was a snob over trivialities. That lunch was the longest they’d ever interacted. It was nice. When they bade each other goodbye, Crowley found himself whistling, which horrified him. Demons weren’t supposed to be in good moods, certainly not from enjoying the company of humans or angels. Happiness was not demonic. He tripped a child so that they hit the ground and knocked out one of their teeth. Then he smiled to himself. There. That’s why he was in a good mood. Spreading misery. Not from having a friend.

That’s what they were now, right? You don’t break bread with enemies, not usually. If you do, there isn’t much laughter. And they’d had a good time, all things considered. He’d do it again, why not? It broke up the monotony.

Friends. Humans had those. He liked humans, mostly. It wouldn’t be so bad to be like them in this one respect, would it? Humans also had lovers, but an angel and a demon? Please. Impossible. Besides, he didn’t even want one of those. Lovers. Ugh. People touching you. That was a human thing, being touched. He was sometimes bored and lonely but not enough for that. For all his fondness for humans, he didn’t want to spend much time building relationships with them. Seemed rather pointless. They all died so quickly, just as you were getting to know them. The demons weren’t such great friends, either. Couldn’t really chat with them. They certainly didn’t smile as much as the angel did. He had a nice smile. Bright white teeth. Wonderfully shaped nose, a little turned up at the end. Crowley didn’t smile much, certainly not with as much gusto as the angel did. And he never showed his teeth. But he did find himself smiling more. Not only in Aziraphale’s presence as he talked about this and that, what interesting new thing the humans were trying out, but afterwards, when he was thinking of the meal they’d shared, the way Aziraphale’s eyes sometimes sparkled. The way his lips moved.

Occasionally he’d hear something good and holy had happened. A small miracle, it was said. He wondered if it had been Aziraphale, or some other agent of heaven. He’d poke around if he was in the neighborhood, see if there was an aura of holiness, if there was a kind of lilac scent lingering. (Baked bread and lilac, that’s what Aziraphale mostly smelled like. Other angels smelled kind of like moth balls, generally. Gabriel smelled like black licorice.) He seldom saw anything actually holy. And he never ran into Aziraphale again. Not that he’d been trying to. He was just idly wondering if his friend was around. Because they were friends. The other guys were just work buddies. Not even really buddies. Colleagues. He joked around with them sometimes but they never really thought he was that funny. They were a very literal crowd. Not imaginative at all. Not that the angels he’d met (Michael, especially, what a wanker) had all that much creativity or intellect.

Five hundred odd years later, he was miserable, in cold armor, surrounded by boring men who didn’t have anything interesting to say and whom he couldn’t even see through the fog. His corporation was uncomfortable in all that mail and armor. The second he heard the words “I, Sir Aziraphale,” he chuckled. He thought about their lunch once a decade or so, and it would be nice to shoot the shit with his friend. He’d been storing up things to tell Aziraphale on the off chance he saw him again, mostly about food he’d eaten, or something dumb someone said, or events he thought the angel might’ve had a hand in, and these mental conversations had over time persuaded him that Aziraphale and he were closer than perhaps they actually were. It wasn’t really his thing, he didn’t know what friends were, or if friends’ voices made your heart speed up a tick. He greeted the angel with a death threat, and Aziraphale merely looked puzzled. He opened up his helm’s visor, and the sun came out a little bit.

Truth be told, this whole spreading foment thing was not fun. He’d had better times, for sure. Rome, for example, hadn’t been nearly as tedious. He’d been looking for an excuse to not have to bother riding horses and walking around with 20 pounds of metal all over his corporation for about 10 years or so. That’s when he had the idea. He seemed to have more ideas when Aziraphale was on his mind.

He proposed that they stop wasting each other’s time and send memos back to headquarters saying they’d done something when really they’d just fucked around Wessex doing nothing in particular. The net result of good v. bad would still be the same, and he’d be drier. Maybe he’d even run into Aziraphale more often, if they were both pursuing leisure instead of work. All of the eating places tended to be in one place, and if Crowley was near them, surely Aziraphale would be there too, the glutton.

The angel, however, was scandalized at Crowley’s suggestion. Gluttony was fine but sloth and dishonesty were beyond the pale, apparently. Heavenly folk, always so concerned about displeasing someone. Crowley flipped his visor down in disappointment as Aziraphale stormed away. Now his only friend was mad at him. Bollocks.

Crowley still didn’t quite understand what about the angel—this ordinary-looking, just-some-dude angel--made his blood move through his veins a little bit faster, but he was getting closer. He’d taken care to look at the ways the citizens of Londinium interacted with each other, how male friends behaved around each other. How male lovers, less easy to find, behaved around each other. It was an interesting study. Not that it applied to his life, the lovers bit. Not yet. Maybe he’d try it out someday. The possibility was there. But friends greeting other friends would often smile a lot, and kiss each other on the cheeks, and clasp arms. He’d never done that with the angel. He was fairly certain they wouldn’t burn each other’s skin off if they did, but as far as he knew, no one had tested it out. That could be another question Crowley investigated, if he wanted. Might be interesting, to see what would happen.

He spent the next few centuries figuring out how to rework the question so Aziraphale would agree to it. He came up with the idea of framing it as them helping each other. The angel would _love_ that. That bugger positively leapt at the chance to be helpful. The wrong person might try to use that against him someday.

By now the fashions had changed enough that he’d been required to assume a more permanent genital shape, to keep up appearances that he was human. Doublet and hose and such. He wasn’t sure why, but his emotions were different now that he’d settled on male anatomy. He’d actually felt lust once, like an actual human and everything, instead of just deploying it as a tool. It was very odd. Human bodies were so confusing.

(It should be disclosed, in the name of total honesty, that the time Crowley had felt lust was when he was doing some tempting at an orgy in a royal court in Gaul and there’d been a nice blonde man wearing white on top and nothing on the bottom, because he’d been getting sucked off by a man wearing black. Crowley actually saw the two of them and was the one who made them notice each other. He planted the idea in their minds, the idea that said they should touch. He hadn’t expected it to work, let alone to look like that, making it hard to breathe. It probably meant nothing. Crowley just watched until their completion and then made his way on home, waiting patiently for his boner to end. It didn’t, not until he’d rubbed it a little and thought of boring things, like 6th century Wessex, for example, and meeting an old friend, and maybe peeling that friend out of armor and making out up against a tree. Or fucking that friend up against a tree. Or being fucked by that friend up against a tree. The tree bit was important, apparently, for reasons he didn’t dissect. The old friend was the most important part, though.)

A realization struck around 632AD, when he’d been sleeping for a decade, woke up, and tried to tell Aziraphale what he’d been dreaming about, only to realize that Aziraphale had been in the dream but wasn’t there in person. Crowley desperately wanted Aziraphale to be there in person when he woke up. He went back to sleep and had a sex dream starring a certain angel on his heavenly knees. The next day, every blonde head he saw made his heart jump into his throat, but they were never him. He had to admit to himself the truth. He was attached. One might say carrying a torch. A seed had been planted in Rome and it came to fruition now. He wanted the angel in a human, sexual way, on top of all the other ways one being could like another being. He admitted it to himself, got roaring drunk for three straight days, and he stopped sleeping for a century or so.

They met again a few hundred years later, at the Battle of Hastings, but didn’t have much time to chat. Aziraphale got his name right this time, at least. Crowley replayed the encounter in his head enough times that he felt embarrassed about it. The way Aziraphale had perked up upon seeing him. His white, straight, even teeth. The way Crowley’s hands itched to reach out for him. The way Aziraphale looked intently at Crowley’s sunglasses, even though he couldn’t see through them, because it would be rude not to make eye contact. They couldn’t talk for long. Aziraphale had to go save soldiers from war crimes and Crowley had to go make soldiers commit them. Aziraphale didn’t even look sourly at Crowley for doing bad things, he just said “cheerio” and went on his way, pleased to see a familiar face. Crowley watched him go and then made all the swords on the battlefield extra dull, so they’d hurt worse and crush more bones rather than slice through limbs. It didn’t make him feel better or less confused.

Then, barely a century later, in 1133, there was a total solar eclipse, right in the neighborhood. Perfect for a day trip. Crowley encouraged the locals to look directly at the sun without eye protection.

“Crowley, that’ll ruin their eyesight,” Aziraphale tutted.

“That’s the point,” Crowley said, turning to greet Aziraphale as if he could still breathe normally around him and still knew what to do with his hands.

“I’ll just have to heal them, I suppose, once it’s over.”

Crowley looked at the angel. His appearance was unchanged. As cheerful and curly blonde as ever.

“I hope you’re on the clock for all that miraculous healing,” Crowley said. “Wouldn’t want you to put in unpaid overtime.”

“I’m not here for business, I’m here for pleasure. I can’t get enough of these eclipses, if I’m being honest. There’s just something about them that is marvelous. Like a dance.”

“Angels don’t dance.”

“Neither do planets or other heavenly bodies. It’s a metaphor.”

“Simile.”

Aziraphale wapped him on the arm. He smiled.

“Who does the regulation of planetary orbits in Heaven?” Crowley asked. “Is it still that unpleasant Quartermaster fellow?”

“No, it runs itself these days, mostly. Like clockwork, one could say.”

The closer the moon got to the sun, the more nervous the humans got. Aziraphale and Crowley just stood by, chatting idly. (“Yes, I’m permanently assigned to this area, they’re calling it Brittany,” etc.) The humans were in a flap around them. Tensions were running high. Humans were never sure what eclipses were. They never seemed to remember them and constantly had to relearn everything. As suddenly as it’s possible for a sense of peace and relaxation to come upon a person, Crowley realized that he and the crowd were suddenly soothed. He smelled lilac. Aziraphale looked around, pleased.

“The poor dears get so worried,” he explained, as the sky went dark. Crowley clapped a hand on his shoulder, and left it there as they watched the sky for the two minutes of totality. He let go when the sky started to lighten again. They didn’t speak about it.

Crowley’d expected his touch to burn Aziraphale, but it didn’t, he later mused. Maybe because it wasn’t skin on skin? It made him feel electrified, placing a hand on an angel of God, but was that a divine powers feedback thing or a human vessel emotion thing? He’d have to test that out.

The height of the black plague wasn’t a good time to go around arm in arm, touching each other, but he and Aziraphale did meet up once and go out for a picnic of bread and hard cheese and a nice jug of mead.

The angel sat up against a tree, and Crowley lounged on the ground a few feet away, his shoes kicked off. Shoes hadn’t gotten much more comfortable in his time on earth. The clothing had improved, though. The hose made his legs look good, at least, and the codpieces were kind of funny. The angel had one too. Presumably he’d also had to commit to carrying around a penis and testicles. Crowley felt it wouldn’t do to ask, though the angel might turn a pleasing shade of pink if he did. He thought about it. Maybe after a few more cups of alcohol. Despite the change in fashion, the angel still hadn’t changed his hairstyle. That was fine, though. Crowley liked it short. It looked soft.

The idea that killing the cats would stop the plague had been Crowley’s idea, and Crowley had thought Aziraphale would’ve been worried about senseless cruelty towards Her creatures, but the angel confessed that he also didn’t much care for cats, and Crowley was so surprised he laughed aloud.

“See, that’s why I like you,” Crowley said.

The angel looked pleased but in quick measure doubted himself.

“Yes, well, I should hope so. Angels are inherently likable. We’re beings of love.”

“You are not,” Crowley said. “The rest of the angels are all tossers. You’re much more lov—likable than them.”

Ah, _fuck._ He’d almost said it. Bad bad bad bad bad. Ah FUCK he’d even thought it. Lovable? Nooooo. Love did weird things to people. He wasn’t about to be one of those lovesick, easily manipulated fools. He dealt with this feeling the only way he knew how: by burying it and changing the subject.

“Anyway, what’s Gabriel’s deal?” he said, shifting uncomfortably. “Why’s he such a cunt?”

Aziraphale’s feathers got so ruffled he stopped blushing at being called likable and went into defense mode, which got more half-hearted the more he tried to defend the archangel. “He is sometimes quite rude, but you see, it’s a stressful job, being one of God’s warriors. It’s—rather—I can understand why you would think him so—but—“

“Angel, you’re going to pull something if you keep stretching like that,” Crowley said, smiling.

“Oh, shut up,” Aziraphale said, taking another sip of mead. “It’s not like your side are any better.”

“Not a great lot, no,” Crowley said. “Only one demon worth knowing, if you ask me.”

“Oh really, who? Why haven’t I met him? Can you introduce us?”

Crowley threw a piece of cheese at the angel, who laughed brightly.

“Have you given any more thought to my proposal?” asked Crowley, by and by.

“The one about _lying_ to the heavenly host? No thank you,” Aziraphale said.

“You lied to the Almighty Herself and didn’t get so much as a reprimand,” Crowley reminded him. “And it would just be to Gabriel. It’s not like he does his due diligence checking up on anything.”

“How would you know?”

“Bureaucrats are all the same, Aziraphale,” Crowley said, waving a hand dismissively.

“Well, I can’t argue there,” Aziraphale said. “Our missions are different, and of course Heaven’s cause is just, but there does seem to be a lack of enthusiasm for paperwork on both sides.”

“What say we share the load, as it were? You scratch my back, I scratch your front.” Crowley said.

Aziraphale considered it, slowly chewing on a bite of pear.

“A bit of give and take, all evening out, so no side gets the better of the other, and we both look good to our bosses. ‘I thwarted the serpent of Eden again, good for me!’ ‘That’s right Aziraphale, you’re doing a great job, sweetie, have another employee of the month badge.’”

“Gabriel would never call me sweetie,” Aziraphale said.

“I was exaggerating for comedic effect,” Crowley said, gently kicking the sole of Aziraphale’s foot. Gabriel better not be calling Aziraphale sweetie. “But it’s like at the solar eclipse. I told everyone to do something that would blind them, and you healed them afterwards. Cancelled each other out, but we both have something to put on our resumes.”

“It wants consideration,” Aziraphale said.

“You know you want to,” Crowley said. “Here, let’s start now. You do a blessing, and I’ll do a curse, and they’ll cancel each other out, and we can get on with our lives.”

Crowley pointed a finger at a nearby sheep. It frothed at the mouth and fell over, dead.

“Oh no, whatever shall we do?” he said, feigning distress.

Aziraphale snapped, and the woman at the nearby well, which had gone dry, suddenly brought forth buckets and buckets of fresh water. Aziraphale watched her with a small smile of satisfaction, and Crowley watched him with the same.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Crowley said.

“No, I should say not,” Aziraphale said thoughtfully.

Crowley waited.

“But how would we know when to undo the other’s work?” Aziraphale asked.

“That’s a good question,” Crowley said, pretending to consider an answer. “I guess we’d have to figure out a way to rendezvous to catch each other up. A secret meeting place or code or something. A means of communication just between us.”

“Hmmm,” Aziraphale said.

“We could both stay in and around the London area, set up camp there, and send messengers, or something. You let me know when you’ve got something big brewing, I’ll find something to even the score, and it’ll be right as rain.”

“I’m not sure about this, Crowley,” the angel said, hesitating. “Not that I wouldn’t enjoy seeing more of you. It just feels wrong, somehow, to be bartering with humans’ fates like this.”

Crowley felt a bit of warmth in his midsection. The angel enjoyed being around him. “The humans aren’t going to know better anyway, will they? Their whole existence is capricious and they have no idea. Come on, Aziraphale. Would you prefer we have to fight each other at every opportunity? Because I’d beat you every time. Much more time to read those books you like so much if we’re not at each other’s throats.”

“I’m a soldier of God, you wouldn’t stand a chance against me,” Aziraphale said, but barely got it out before laughing. Crowley guffawed along with him.

“Think about it, at least,” Crowley said.

“When would you like an answer?” Aziraphale said.

“Next decade?”

“Goodness gracious, that’s soon.”

“I’m an impatient man, angel.”

This was a blatant lie. He’d been waiting for the angel for centuries now, though he’d never admitted what he wanted from him, not even to himself, in as many words.

“Very well, then. When and where shall we meet, so that I can give you my answer?”

“Say, exactly 10 years from this date, dusk, at the White Tower. It’ll probably still be there, right?”

“I’d imagine so. What year is it today?”

Crowley stifled a smile and told him the date. Aziraphale wrote it down on a little piece of paper and put it in his breast pocket so he wouldn’t forget.

They shook hands on it. Their skin didn’t burn at the contact.

Interesting. Crowley filed that information away for later use.

Ten years later, Aziraphale agreed. They shared information about where they could usually be found, the names the locals knew them by, and landmarks they could meet at. Hell gave Crowley orders more often than Heaven gave Aziraphale assignments, but Heaven required the reports to be filed more quickly than Hell did, so they were usually able to work it out so that their reports coincided, even if their miracles didn’t take place at exactly the same time or magnitude. Crowley’s reports tended to be more detailed and fictitious, while Aziraphale’s were very carefully worded so that he was still technically being truthful. He just neglected to mention that the other side’s schemes were thwarted in a pretty predictable pattern, should anyone care to look closer.

But they never did. Aziraphale was pretty sure they didn’t even read his reports. That was OK. He liked having more autonomy in his workplace. The humans were getting very good at things like theatre and poetry. Appreciating those took up a lot of his time. Once Mr. Gutenberg refined his idea of the printing press, both Crowley and Aziraphale took credit for it, though neither of them had done a single thing to bring it about.

They met up every few years or so, usually just for a few minutes to compare notes about what they were expected to do and which of them should do it this time. Sometimes they did them both immediately and spent the rest of the day faffing about London. There was an awful lot of fun things to be doing nowadays. Crowley liked bear baiting. Well, he specifically liked setting the bears free to turn on their captors and sometimes the crowd. Once, when they met up, Crowley’s hair was significantly different. Aziraphale complimented the demon on it. Crowley waved aside the remark but was secretly very pleased, and Aziraphale looked like he’d figured out a secret about Crowley but didn’t want to seem obvious about it. He was so easy to read, it was embarrassing. The next time they met, he complimented Crowley’s glasses.

“Thank you, angel,” Crowley said, looking over their rims.

“I understand why you wear them around the humans, but why around me? I’ve seen you without them, your eyes don’t scare me.”

“Force of habit, I suppose,” Crowley said, shrugging.

But he took them off whenever they weren’t in public. This wasn’t often, as they weren’t supposed to be around each other at all, and certainly not without any possible supervision or explanation as to why they were meeting privately and not fighting to the death. Not that anyone had ever questioned them. Yet. But it can’t hurt to think ahead, Aziraphale maintained. Crowley didn’t much care. He was enjoying himself, getting the angel to do some slightly wicked things, and, though he would never ever admit it, it was kind of fun to do kind miracles instead of malicious ones. They made him think of what it would be like if he hadn’t fallen, if he and Aziraphale were comrades instead of enemies. That line of thought brought on an exquisite kind of sadness, though one without much pain. Crowley had come to terms with Falling, and knew by now that there was no difference between Heaven and Hell, except for the interior decoration. As long as there was Earth, he was fine with being a demon on it. Take away Earth and all its music and interesting drinks and chats in taverns and cool paintings and suddenly this whole thing became much less fun. Why would he ever want to go hang around in Hell when he could be sitting in some grass somewhere, looking at some birds? Sure, he could go explore the cosmos, but somehow the view of the stars was better from the Earth.

He liked to sit there at night next to a fire with a nice drink and look up at the universe. Sometimes he invited Aziraphale along, when there was a meteor shower or a comet or something. More often than not Aziraphale just seemed to know where to find him when some astronomical event was happening. The humans were getting closer to figuring out the universe. It was fun watching them solve the puzzle.

What time was it by now? Ah yes, 1492. The Archangel Michael had secured funding for Christopher Columbus to travel the seas and spread the gospel, and Aziraphale was stressed about it. His own efforts would likely pale in comparison, Head Office might want him to do something big to compensate for how small his own contributions had been.

“Aziraphale. Relax. It will probably mean nothing. He’ll get shipwrecked somewhere and it’ll all blow over. Like the Vikings, no one even remembers they got to the so-called New World first. If anything, he’ll just be some Marco Polo, write a best-selling travel book, and call it a day.”

Aziraphale didn’t look so sure, but he tried to smile anyway.

So Crowley wasn’t always right. He was only human.

Kind of.

Aziraphale and Crowley had taken to politics as a spectator sport. Whenever Henry VIII got married again they’d place bets on how long the marriage would last, loser had to buy the winner lunch. That had been a good half-century. He’d seen Aziraphale quite often then.

In the Globe, where _Hamlet_ was flopping around like a dying fish trying to get audience members, Aziraphale had put up resistance to continuing their arrangement. It took almost no effort to convince him to keep it going, but his concern hadn’t been about if Heaven had found out, but if Hell did. Why was that his priority? Was he only pretending to be more concerned about Crowley so he could actually express his reservations for himself? Or did he genuinely worry about Crowley’s welfare?

These questions didn’t keep him awake at night, per se, but he did wonder. For over a millennium now he’d been hoping the angel would feel the same way about him, would feel that strange pull towards each other that surely had to be mutual, right? Had Heaven said something to Aziraphale? Was that why he thought Hell must’ve said something to Crowley too? Did he think Crowley couldn’t handle whatever Hell dished out? Heaven’s punishment would be worse for Aziraphale than Hell’s for Crowley, in the end. Hell was already full of fallen angels, how much worse could it get than that?

At least if Aziraphale fell they could be on the same side, wouldn’t have to hide as much if they wanted to eat a damn meal in peace. But if Aziraphale fell, would he be the same? He’d still be lovable, obviously, but would he be able to even look at Crowley, if Crowley’s friendship was the reason Heaven cast him out? They wouldn’t, obviously, Crowley was confident, because Heaven and Hell genuinely did not care what they got up to, as long as they filled out the paperwork on time. But Aziraphale was slow to realize this. He was slow to realize a lot of things.

“I think the humans are onto something with this,” Aziraphale said, brandishing a copy of _Don Quixote_ , newly published. “The first part was magnificent enough, but the second? Where he has to reckon with what his legend has become? Extraordinary. Not unlike watching mythology spring up around us.”

“Us?”

“Angels and demons, the church, and so on, not us, Aziraphale and Crowley specifically. Can you imagine?”

Crowley could, and he was glad that the other demons didn’t have nearly as much imagination as him, otherwise they might’ve considered the possibility of his and Aziraphale’s friendship-if-that’s-what-we’re-going-with-yeah-friendship-uh-huh-completely-platonic-friendship, and who knows what could happen then.

“Perish the thought,” Crowley said.

“But no, novels! Collected prose stories told in a continuous fashion! Rather than something like _The Iliad_ , which was breathtaking in its own way. Not only available through travelling bards! Fascinating idea, really wonderful.”

Crowley hummed in agreement. He rather liked the exclusivity of the theatrical experience, but Aziraphale didn’t much like to leave the house, no wonder he’d be more excited about being able to read something by himself on his own time.

“How is your art collection coming?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley shrugged, pretending not to be proud. It had started last century, during what the Italians called the Renaissance. It’d started with him picking up sketches of angels and demons and Adam and Eve and Lucifer’s fall—there had been a big increase in stuff like this after the publication of _Paradise Lost_ , which Aziraphale had starting reading aloud to him one day. Crowley insisted he keep reading it all the way through, since it was obviously a sensationalized piece of muck and had no relation to what had actually happened, but he did reserve the right to get smashing drunk while Aziraphale read it. He read and Crowley drank for nine hours straight. That had been quite a day.

In any case, around that time, when the religious art scene really started kicking up again, Crowley would acquire pieces and show them to Aziraphale and they’d have a good long laugh at how wrong everything was. Crowley liked watching Aziraphale blush at the more provocative pieces (humans were horny bastards, it made Crowley laugh every time he saw an overly sexualized angel or demon or Virgin Mary or what have you). Oftentimes he’d sell them to museums or private collectors after getting Aziraphale’s opinion (he made quite a tidy sum of money this way), but he had a few favorite pieces he kept around.

They took to betting on the outcome of the English Civil War again. Neither of their sides was involved in it in a major way, so it was truly exciting seeing what the humans cooked up. When Charles’s head actually came from his shoulders, Aziraphale and Crowley were in the audience. Aziraphale winced. Now Crowley got to pick where they’d get to eat for the next decade. He didn’t think the humans would actually do it. Now he was going to have to choke down haggis for the next 10 years.

“Do you ever wish to relocate?” Aziraphale asked at one of their next de-briefings, sitting in St. James’s Park, throwing bread to ducks.

“Uh no?” Crowley said, feeling low-level panic at the thought of Aziraphale leaving.

“I might like to see the Americas,” Aziraphale said.

“They’re weird over there,” Crowley observed. “No thank you.”

“Maybe just a short holiday, then,” Aziraphale said.

“Bring me back a souvenir.”

Aziraphale tutted. “You’ve really never wanted to see the rest of the world?”

“I’ve seen it, angel, humans are basically the same wherever you go, it’s just which of their bad habits are predominating at this point in time.”

“That’s a dark view of the world, Crowley.”

Crowley just smiled. “Prove me wrong.”

“I will. One of these days.” Crowley didn’t miss the wistful note in Aziraphale’s voice. He wished he could make the humans live up to Aziraphale’s faith in them. He’d singlehandedly make them all into Good Samaritans if it would please Aziraphale.

“Well, I guess I’ll go to the New World alone, then,” Aziraphale said to himself. “I wonder what books I should bring for the journey?”

“Wait, was that an invitation?” Crowley asked, sitting up straight.

“Of course, why would I want to go on holiday by myself?”

“You want to go on holiday with me?” He blinked rapidly, not that Aziraphale could see.

“Who else am I going to go with? Joan of Arc? She’s a nice girl but not very good company since they burned her at the stake.”

“Wh—h--how are you going to get there?”

“Ship, naturally, Heaven wouldn’t authorize that kind of miracle for transportation for only a personal holiday.”

“That’ll take months.”

“But it would be a pleasant journey, depending on the weather.”

“And you want me to come with you?”

“It was just a thought.” Aziraphale said, shrugging, turning slightly pink, bending over to toss some more bread to the ducks.

“Have you already booked passage?”

Aziraphale didn’t respond.

“Angel, tell me what time to meet you and where to get my mail forwarded and I’ll gladly go to America with you.”

“Oh, really?” He turned to look at Crowley, smiling widely, his gray eyes dancing cheerfully.

“Absolutely, if you’re willing to risk it, I’m willing to risk it.”

“Oh dear, yes,” Aziraphale said, eyebrows furrowed. “It’s our side’s off-season, things are a bit slow in the summer. I didn’t even think to ask when Hell’s busy season was.”

“Doesn’t matter. We don’t get vacations.”

“I don’t suppose I could try to get Michael to write it off as a business trip,” Aziraphale thought aloud. “We’d have to take an assignment there, probably liaise with the American branch of the office.”

“That sounds dreadful, let’s do it.”

“I’ll make some further enquiries, but say since we’ve booked passage for just after Easter, we spend a month or so making the rounds, seeing what there is to see, and return by All Hallow’s Eve so we’ll have plenty of time to recover before Advent.”

“That sounds magnificent. What’s the food like there?”

Aziraphale spent the next twenty minutes gushing about these new fruit tarts the Dutch immigrants had dreamed up, while Crowley struggled to tie his heart down instead of letting it fly out of his body like a kite.

In the end, they couldn’t take the trip. The Seven Years War started, and they were needed in England. Aziraphale gave their tickets to a nice young couple starting a family, and said it was probably for the best, as they would’ve had a hard time explaining to their sides what they were doing if they’d been caught. Crowley let his dream of ocean stargazing and shared berths and an American honeymoon die without mentioning it to Aziraphale. It had been a fierce blow. He’d spent quite a long time trying to be satisfied with what he and the angel shared, to not get his hopes up beyond a few stolen hours here and there, whenever Crowley sought him out. The prospect of not only spending months at Aziraphale’s side, but working up the courage to ask if he felt the same way, that had played havoc with Crowley’s emotions, but in a thrilling way, one that promised a radical change in his life. It hurt to relinquish those possibilities.

“Maybe a side trip to the Continent, then?” Crowley asked, when Aziraphale broke the news.

“Perhaps,” he replied, distressed. “I was rather looking forward to the New World.”

“It’ll still be there, next time,” Crowley said. “It’s not going anywhere.”

The American Revolution happened. Crowley thought it was hilarious.

“Dear things, their hearts are in the right place,” Aziraphale said.

“I like their optimism,” Crowley said, “thinking they’ll be able to do something different than the rest of humanity. Very cheeky. And it’s brassy of them, saying everyone’s equal while holding slaves.”

“That’s one word for it,” Aziraphale said, and frowned.

“Heaven still not taking your memos about abolishing the slave trade?” Crowley asked softly.

“No, they’re ending up in a filing cabinet somewhere, I’m sure,” Aziraphale said. “Gabriel said to keep my nose in my own department.”

“I never did like that shitheel,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale sighed, though Crowley wasn’t sure at what.

They did their separate thing for a bit, Aziraphale got himself mixed up in the French Revolution, Crowley came to the rescue, they had crepes, and so on. Crowley got to worrying about if there was a target on his back. Little things, here and there, that Hastur or Ligur said, insinuating that he wasn’t a dedicated servant to Satan, that he wasn’t as big a man as he thought he was. He asked Aziraphale for holy water, hoping to protect himself. Aziraphale threw a fit. Crowley threw a fit and slept for a couple decades, waking only to convince Oscar Wilde to sue Lord Douglas for defamation (he _really_ regretted that one) and to buy a cool new car (this one went over better). Aziraphale got himself mixed up with some Nazis, Crowley came to the rescue. He took Aziraphale for a ride sometime around 1954, careening through the streets of London, Aziraphale grasping at the ceiling of the car, trying not to yelp every time they went over a kerb. Crowley started plotting a daring church robbery to solve a problem still on his mind, and found Aziraphale in his car, a thermos of holy water in his hands. The tartan pattern matched his bowtie. Crowley was speechless. A first. He knew Aziraphale liked him, though he pretended not to. He knew Aziraphale worried about him. But to give him such a gift? What could that possibly mean?

“You go too fast for me, Crowley,” he’d said. Crowley didn’t stop muttering that to himself at night for years and years.

The Antichrist came and went. He turned out to be a very nice young man. He didn’t even hold it against them that they’d tried to murder him, and in fact restored their most prized possessions to pristine condition. Humans were worth saving after all.

Now they walked aimlessly through the park, towards the river, hands in pockets and behind their backs, respectively, riding the nice champagne buzz and the We Saved the World and Didn’t Die and We’re Finally Alone euphoria.

How long should he wait before telling Aziraphale every little thing he adored about him? Like, a day? A week? No point in waiting any longer. Any longer than Aziraphale needed, in any case.

He hoped he didn’t need longer than a few days. Surely he had to know something like a confession of love would be coming from Crowley. How could he _not_ know at this point? He’d _cried_ while talking about how he’d lost Aziraphale.

Crowley never once in two thousand years considered the possibility that Aziraphale would broach the subject first.

“Crowley?” he said, while they were staring out at the Thames from Westminster Bridge.

“Yes, angel?”

“I love you very much, you know.” Just like that. Calm as you like. Crowley nearly tripped over his own feet.

“Oh I uh—I--.”

“I’m sorry for lying to you when I said I didn’t even like you. I was upset about the end of the world.”

Crowley’s head was swimming and he wasn’t sure his legs could keep him up on their own. He placed a hand on the bridge railing to keep himself steady as they continued to walk “We both said things we didn’t mean, it’s fine.”

“You’ve never lied to me.”

“Yeah well I—“

“I’ll never lie to you again.”

“Aziraphale, you’re the worst liar I’ve ever met, you’ve never once convinced me of anything that wasn’t true.”

“I’ve lied to you so much!” Aziraphale said, indignant. “By omission, technically…”

“Pffft. About what?”

“That I’ve been in love with you since 1941! You had no idea! I’m a much better liar than you think!”

“Well I’ve been in love with you since we ate oysters in Rome and you had even less than no idea, so I’m the better liar, obviously.”

Aziraphale stopped in his tracks, looking up at Crowley’s face with the softest expression Crowley had ever seen.

“Oh, Crowley, all this time?”

Crowley nodded, his throat suddenly tight. Aziraphale grabbed both of his hands, distressed. “Why didn’t you say something? You must have been in so much pain!”

Crowley shrugged. “You get used to pain. Didn’t even mind it anymore, since it was for you. Like walking onto consecrated ground.”

“I do believe that’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“I should hope so,” Crowley said.

“Jealousy is unattractive, dear.”

“Everything I do is attractive, admit it,” Crowley said, gently pulling Aziraphale closer.

“Well I wouldn’t go that far, but yes, you are very attractive, Aziraphale said.

“So are you. Are you ready to kiss me yet?”

He was.


End file.
